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  PRAISE FOR BETH PATTILLO’S

  JANE AUSTEN RUINED MY LIFE

  “Jane Austen Ruined My Life will enchant Austen devotees with its clever plot … and fascinating details, which reveal the depth of the author’s research…. Pattillo achieves a pleasing balance of wry humor, poignancy and perception that will delight already established fans and attract new ones. A definite winner!”

  —Nicole Byrd, award-winning author of Enticing the Earl

  “Jane Austen Ruined My Life made my day! Charming, entertaining and thought-provoking—I couldn’t put it down.”

  —Celeste Bradley, New York Times best-selling author

  of The Heiress Brides series

  “Formidable! Beth Pattillo’s jolly romp of a novel about all things Austen charmed its way into my heart on page one. Emma Grant is an utterly real character trying to find her storybook ending after all—you can’t help but cheer for her along the way.”

  —May Vanderbilt, author of The Book of Jane

  “A light and lovely fictional journey. She manages to strike the delicate balance of examining the clever, imaginary what-ifs of Austen’s life while still respecting (and clearly revering) Austen. Reading this book made me feel like I was back in England, following Austen’s life through the countryside. Well done!”

  — Lori Smith, author of A Walk with Jane Austen,

  editor, Jane Austen Quote of the Day blog

  Jane Austen Ruined My Life

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8249-4771-2

  Published by Guideposts

  16 East 34th Street

  New York, New York 10016

  www.guideposts.com

  Copyright © 2009 by Beth Pattillo. All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Distributed by Ideals Publications

  2636 Elm Hill Pike, Suite 120

  Nashville, Tennessee 37214

  Guideposts and Ideals are registered trademarks of Guideposts.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Pattillo, Beth.

  Jane Austen ruined my life / Beth Pattillo.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-8249-4771-2

  1. Women college teachers—Fiction. 2. English teachers—Fiction.

  3. Divorce—Fiction. 4. Austen, Jane, 1775-1817—Appreciation—Fiction.

  5. Americans—England—Fiction. 6. Letters—Fiction. 7. First loves—

  Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3616.A925J36 2009

  813′.6—dc22

  2008043303

  Cover design by the DesignWorks Group

  Cover art by Corbis

  Interior design by Lorie Pagnozzi

  Map by Rose Lowry

  Typeset by Nancy Tardi

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  FOR SAM AND MEG,

  WITH ALL MY HEART.

  Acknowledgments

  First, I have to thank my editor, Beth Adams, whose patience, insight, and good humor made all the difference in the writing of this book. Also a big thank-you to everyone at Guideposts for their enthusiasm and support.

  My agent, Jenny Bent, continues to be an encouraging partner and advocate in the publishing process. I can’t thank her enough for all her help and her general fabulousness.

  My friend Judith Stanton was kind enough to read the manuscript and offer her invaluable expertise as both a writer and an academic. Her generosity certainly improved the book. Any mistakes are, of course, my own.

  Phil Howe of Hidden Britain Tours brought Hampshire to life for me, and for that I owe him a great deal. If you’re ever in his neck of the woods, sign up for a tour.

  I can’t offer enough thank-yous to my friend and guru Deb Dixon, who gives me wise counsel and courage in equal measure.

  As always, my family makes it all worthwhile. My husband, Randy, and my children, Sam and Meg, were kind enough to grin and bear it when we combined our family vacation with my research trip. I think I can say that, in the end, a good time was had by all.

  The fine folks at Panera Bread on West End Avenue in Nashville, Tennessee, provided the necessary coffee and chocolate-chip bagels to fuel the writing of this book. Many thanks to Mimi, Sundra, and company for the caffeine and the carbs.

  My friends continue to help me keep the whole shebang between the ditches. To my partner in crime at Panera, Annie Solomon, the ever-helpful Cheryl Lewallen, the irrepressible Mary Strand, and my GNO buddies—Gwen Holder, Julie Shadburne, and Marcie Nash—an ocean of gratitude for your presence in my life.

  And, finally, to Jane Austen herself, I offer my thanks. My life, and the lives of so many others, would be much less without the power of her pen.

  “When a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way.”

  JANE AUSTEN

  Prelude

  Jane Austen ruined my life. I blame her entirely. Well, I also blame my mother for filling my head with an unshakable belief in happy endings. And I blame my father, who’s a preacher, for instilling in me a faith in the goodness of people and the staunch certainty that God has a plan for everyone’s lives. Between the three of them—Austen and my parents—I never stood a chance. They made me the woman I am today. The woman sitting in seat 37B. The seat next to the guy snoring like a chain saw. And we only took off thirty minutes ago. It’s another six and a half hours before we land in London.

  So I’m going to England to get my revenge on Jane Austen. And my parents. Not to mention my cheating ex-husband. Most of all, I’m going to England to prove that there’s no such thing as a happy ending. And that I was a fool to think I could ever have one.

  I pulled the well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice from my tote bag and stowed the bag under the seat in front of me. Last time I flew to England, I’d been in first class with Edward, my ex. First class, where they insist that you accept hot towels and champagne along with extra blankets and pillows. Now I was in coach with my knees pressed up against the seat in front of me and the Battery King of Seattle at my left elbow. As it turned out, the only thing worse than having the man snore was having him wake up and start talking to me again.

  “Let me get you a drink, sweetheart,” he said with all the confidence that wealth gives to a fifty-something man carrying a small child’s worth of extra weight.

  All my life I had been taught that if you did the right thing, acted with integrity, and didn’t make a fool of yourself, not only would Mr. Right come along, but he also would arrive with full financing and a lifetime guarantee of fidelity. I believed this until I was thirty-three years old and found my husband in a compromising position that involved my teaching assistant and our kitchen table. I moved out shortly thereafter, but I let Edward keep the table. How could I have eaten off it after that?

  It wasn’t quite as easy to run away from Jane Austen, despite the fact that I blamed her for ruining my life. Because while my husband might have killed my belief in marital fidelity, even he couldn’t extinguish the hope that Jane had instilled in me from the moment I read those first fateful words:

  It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

  One sentence of Pride and Prejudice and I was hooked like a junkie who had to keep coming back for a
fix. So it was no surprise to anyone when I majored in English in college. I went on to do my PhD at the University of Texas, where I met and married Edward. He was a tenured professor. I was a lowly graduate student. But you can’t name your daughter Emma and not expect her to go looking for her Mr. Knightley. Edward was older, wiser. He kept me from putting a foot wrong. As it turned out, he kept me from putting a foot right too.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I said to the Battery King when he insisted again on that drink. I opened my book, thumbed through the pages to find a good place to start. It was going to be a long night.

  What was I doing here, somewhere off the coast of Nova Scotia at thirty thousand feet? Frankly, I was risking what little resources I had left on a pipe dream. How many other disgraced English professors had cashed in their IRAs and gambled their futures on a stack of old documents that might or might not exist? How many weirdos believed that somewhere in London, a little old lady was sitting on a stash of Jane Austen’s letters that had supposedly been burned by her sister, Cassandra?

  But when you’ve lost your husband, your career, and your hope, you might as well bank on the improbable, if not the impossible.

  “What are you up to in London?” my seatmate asked. He’d managed to spill most of his manicotti down the front of his shirt, and a good half of his bread roll nestled in the folds of his chin.

  “Research,” I mumbled as I stuck my nose in my book and hoped he would take the hint. Of course I couldn’t be that lucky. Apparently he had all the social skills of one of his batteries.

  “I’m meeting with new distributors myself,” he said, barely waiting for my answer before launching into a monologue about himself, his business, and his general fabulousness. My good Southern upbringing made me at least pretend to listen, but all I wanted to do was lose myself in the story of Elizabeth and Darcy. I might be out to destroy Jane Austen, but I still needed her like the aforementioned junkie. Just because people buy snake oil doesn’t mean they don’t need medicine.

  “Where are you staying?” The Battery King was not going to give up his inquisition easily. “I’m at the Dorchester. Maybe we could—”

  “I’m staying really far out of the city. In Hampstead. I doubt I’ll even come into central London,” I said, lying through my teeth. The suburb where my cousin Anne-Elise lived was only twenty or thirty minutes from the center of the city by Underground.

  “I know a great little place for—”

  “Oh, look. The movie’s starting.” Thank heavens.

  I dug into the seat pocket for my headphones and slipped the buds in my ears. God bless whatever filmmaker had just saved me from my seatmate. Watching the movie, though, meant that I couldn’t read my book. So instead, I spent the next ninety minutes staring at the monitor above my head while a famous actor blew up buildings and rescued the requisite damsel in four-inch heels, who apparently didn’t have the sense God gave a goose. Fortunately, by the time the carnage ended, the Battery King had fallen asleep again. This time, I didn’t mind his snoring nearly as much.

  Eight hours and one long line at customs later, I sighed with gratitude as the Underground train pulled into Hampstead Station. Overnight flights to England came at the price of sheer exhaustion. Even though it was early morning in London, I was ready to stumble into my cousin Anne-Elise’s house and flop on the nearest flat surface, but first I had to get there.

  I stepped off the train and was swept along in a mad rush to the elevators, suitcase in tow. Hampstead Station was so far beneath the ground that despite the unusual warmth of the late May day, a chill stung the air.

  I had thought I was a chic international traveler, packing nothing more than a twenty-one-inch rolling carry-on and a large tote bag. Just the basics. I had a vague idea of picking up some wonderful accessories and maybe a leather jacket or a vintage cashmere sweater at Camden Market or Portobello Road. I had fancied myself a gypsy. Except now I was eyeing the attire of the tony Hampstead residents and feeling the first pangs of regret. My Armani suit, sold on eBay to help finance my plane ticket. My Prada cocktail dress, on consignment at a vintage store to provide some future income. Everything nice that Edward had picked out and paid for, I had sold or left behind in America, window dressing for a life that never really existed.

  The elevator lifted us so quickly that my ears popped, then the doors opened, and the human throng poured toward the exit. I fished in the pocket of my jeans for my ticket. Which way was I supposed to put it in the turnstile? I hesitated, and someone took it from my hand, turned it over, and slipped it in the slot.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, but my rescuer ignored my words.

  The crowd pressed against me, and I gave my little suitcase a hard yank to make sure it followed me through the barrier.

  Outside the station, I stood on the corner and watched the unending lines of cars in all directions. Hampstead was a quaint eighteenth-century village that had been absorbed into London, but it still retained its old-fashioned charm. Storefronts, two and three stories tall, hovered overhead. The High Street was as bustling as the terminal at Heathrow, and the cross street wasn’t much better. I searched for a road sign, anything to orient me.

  Anne-Elise had said to cross the street and find the little alley passageway that would take me up to Holly Hill. After parading up and down the cross street a few times in front of an estate agent’s offices and assorted shops, I finally saw the narrow opening—steep and shaded from the early morning sunshine, a narrow concrete alleyway that climbed upward between brick walls. With a deep breath, I tightened my grip on my suitcase and began my ascent.

  Maybe it was the altitude, since Hampstead sits about five hundred feet above the rest of London. Maybe it was all the Krispy Kreme donuts I’d snarfed down since finding my husband in flagrante delicto on the kitchen table. But by the time I reached the top of the little passage and then scrambled up the final steep flight of steps, I was out of breath. At the top, I turned back to see how far I’d climbed.

  And any remaining breath I had was sucked from my lungs.

  High above the treetops and in between the chimneys and the steep-pitched roofs, I could see London spread out in the distance. The British Telecom Tower. The London Eye. A glint of sunlight on the Thames. It was like a Constable painting for the new millennium, complete with golden sunshine and high puffy clouds. Suddenly the city seemed less an icy grand dame and more a magical wash of color and light.

  And suddenly I felt less humiliated. There was a tiny hint of optimism. This was my new life. My fresh start. I’d learned from my mistakes. This time would be different. No more illusions about happy endings or divine plans or any of that nonsense.

  A new spring in my step, I rolled my suitcase toward number 10 Holly Hill. The Georgian town house was gorgeous, the brick painted a deep blue with white shutters. Its green front door centered it, nestled as it was in a row of terraced beauties, and flowering vines of some sort climbed toward the upper windows.

  Anne-Elise’s front door was so small, it looked like it had been built for hobbits. Between the cobblestone street and the brass light fixtures on either side of the door, I was hopelessly charmed.

  I put the key in the lock and eventually wrestled it open. Nothing a little WD-40 wouldn’t cure, I thought, still reveling in my renewed optimism. The door swung wide, and I stepped inside. I found myself in a small foyer. With a sigh of gratitude, I lifted my suitcase over the threshold and closed the door behind me.

  That’s when I looked up and saw the tall, thin, half-naked man standing in the hallway, clutching a towel around his waist.

  Not just any half-naked man, of course. No, a random stranger would have been far more manageable. Instead, it was Adam. Adam, who, until the day I married Edward, had been my best friend in the whole world. Adam, whom I hadn’t seen or talked to in almost a decade.

  I was certainly seeing him now.

  I screamed. Even though I knew Adam, knew he wasn’t some deranged loony tune who was
going to pull a knife and demand either money or my virtue. Or both. But the combination of exhaustion, grief, and surprise pushed me over the edge.

  “Hush!” Adam dove at me and clamped a hand over my mouth. His momentum carried us both on a collision course with the front door.

  “Umph” was all I could manage as my spine met unyielding wood. That door might be small, but it was certainly sturdy.

  “Sorry. But the neighbors …” He dropped his hand when he realized it was still covering my mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “What are you doing here?” Was that my voice that sounded so shrill? I paused, swallowed, took a few deep breaths. “How in the world—” And then I stopped. “Oh,” I said, the breath whooshing out of me in a stream of understanding. “I forgot. You and Anne-Elise—”

  “Used to date,” Adam supplied helpfully. “Since you’re the one who introduced us, I’m glad you remembered.”

  I was still leaning against the door, grateful for its solid presence because I’m not sure I could have remained upright otherwise.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “Well, several things. Research, for one. At the British Library.”

  “Could you please put some clothes on?” I said, careful to keep my eyes above the level of Adam’s shoulder.

  I’d given some thought over the years to what I would say to him if I ever saw him again, but whatever witty bons mots I’d concocted, I couldn’t remember any of them now. Adam had made his feelings about my relationship with Edward more than clear, and I’d pretended not to be devastated by his abandonment. And now, after all this time, here he was, with his dark hair and eyes and the same half-knowing, half-mocking grin I used to find so endearing.

  He stepped back and frowned. “I wasn’t expecting you t—” He broke off abruptly.

  I bristled. “I wasn’t expecting you either.”